


fata morgana

by ncfan



Series: Femslash February [22]
Category: La Belle et La Bête (2014 Film), La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Dream Sex, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2018, Ghost Sex, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: There is something else awake inside the castle.





	fata morgana

Dreams and waking times mingle together in this rose-choked shadow of a castle, murmuring as they rest against each other, bleed into each other, the boundaries blurring until they are as a net whose gaps are woven to be miles apart.

There is a voice that whispers without words to Belle in the night, a glimmer of gold that appears on the balcony and resolves itself into the figure of… not quite a woman. A gleam of gold, like sunlight filtered through leaves in high summer, something that could vanish the moment a cloud passes over the sun. She drifts inside and the smell of roses fills Belle’s nose, so sweet and so strong that anything else drifts away, as though it never was.

The moon ripples and wavers in the sky above as the woman curls into Belle, who lies silent and open on top of her bed, the coverings in tangles at her feet. She murmurs endearments into Belle’s throat that Belle can never make out, the phantom suggestion of hands working at the laces of Belle’s nightgown until it’s strewn on the floor, dripping off the bed in a puddle of quicksilver.

Belle is always reaching for something to hold onto, always trying to find hair or shoulders or the smooth plane of a back, and touches only warmth, sunlight made semi-solid, never flesh. She is always anticipating contact that is flesh on flesh, and is given mist to caress and press into her instead.

She writhes in bed, pants and mewls and begs with a voice drowned by moonlight, and they never quite…

In the morning, she finds herself alone, with no trace of companionship, not even a mark on her skin to tell her that she was not alone.

Belle spends her days wandering the grounds of this rose-choked shadow of a castle, her ears straining for music, for laughter, for a whisper that could also be a breeze. She struggles through thickets and bramble bushes, walks in flowered bowers and lets the sunlight dapple her flesh, for its touch is kin to that golden specter, if only distant kin.

Sometimes, she fancies she feels a whisper tickle her ear.

_I am never here. I am always almost there._

Belle drifts in dreamy almost-happiness, and pretends not to notice when rose thorns scratch her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow managed to quote A Softer World. Good grief.


End file.
